


A Drawer Of Knives.

by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo/pseuds/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill is under the influences of the moon and his own anger; Draco keeps putting himself in his way at the wrong times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drawer Of Knives.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ultrasonic Bop for the bill_ficathon. I hope you like this, Ultrasonicbop. You said in your sign-up: " _I hate accents -- so that's why I'm not pairing with Fleur. If she gets a speech coach, you can use her._ " Well, I don't know whether she's had elocution lessons or not, but I got round the problem by making all of her speech indirect, so I hope that's ok.  
> Many thanks to [](http://vanseedee.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://vanseedee.dreamwidth.org/)**vanseedee** for offering when I asked at the last minute and doing such a thorough beta job.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and settings are the intellectual property of JK Rowling.  
> 

1\. _I cherish with fondness the day before I met you._  
Los Camposinos,  My Year In Lists.

Luckily Fleur was fragrant enough for both of them. She smiled the right smile and said the right things, slipping elegantly through the assembled Wizardkind in their Sunday best. Another function and Bill had to be there, among the civilised and the polite, still keeping his family happy, still pretending that it didn't matter what the moon was doing.

He watched his wife; he watched the smooth way in which she made everybody she spoke to happier than they had been before. He barely had the energy to suppress a growl. But suppress it he did. He held his aggression deep within himself. He put on the bland smile which the occasion demanded. His family was important now; they were helping to make the community whole again. He had a part to play.

He did not venture to the centre of the ballroom. Holding their sleeping baby as his excuse, he sat at a small table at the back, sipping tea, being present but unconnected. The moon would be full in two days' time. Its influence prickled at him. When he walked, he had to be careful not to stalk. His sense of smell was sharp and he was attracted to all the wrong scents.

During the first full moon after Greyback's attack, he had been in the hospital – carefully monitored and desperate to get out. He had convinced himself and those around him that he had felt no change as the moon waxed heavy and round, and then slimmed back down. After that, there had been too much troubling those he cared about. Soon it had got too late to mention it.

He sat quietly. He was available if anyone wanted to talk to him, but he wasn't going to put himself out there and volunteer for it. Not like Fleur. She was carrying their second child in her belly. He could see the roundness of it; he wondered whether anyone else could.

Victoire's even breath warmed his neck. This was what he had fought the war for: a safe place to be content with a wife and children. After all that had happened, this should have been heaven. They had a comfortable cottage, he had an interesting, well-paid job, they lived in a time of hope and peace. And yet the capacity for contentment was not within him.

His hearing was also more acute at this time of the month. He heard braying laughter and tried to block it out. The voices were young, loud, superior. There was a bitterness in their words and it drew him more than all the soft, murmured happiness in the room.

The colours were fading, his awareness of movement heightening. It was only slight, it had taken a few months for him to recognise this symptom. He scanned the room, trying to connect the well-bred sneers with the people who had uttered them. He finally found them propped at the bar. And then he heard the slurring in their sentences. They were Ron and Ginny's age, or thereabouts. There were about half a dozen of them.

Gradually, he recognised their features. He had battled those faces, or rather older faces very much like them. They were the children who had been born to the wrong people. They had been promised greatness in The New Order Which Still Could Not Be Named. Then their parents – the Death Eaters – had lost their leader and their quest. Now they had to act polite and be seen to have reformed, and they hated it. Bill smiled, he hated this, too.

As Victoire woke and he shuffled her round so she could see the brightly-coloured world, he worked to put the right name to the right voice. The loudest was a tall, dark-skinned youth. He had his arm draped round a brunette girl with a pug-nose, who simpered and lit the boys' cigarettes. There were two other girls - as similar-looking as sisters - a slim, blond young man, a brown-haired, owlish one and a tall, broad one who grunted occasionally, but didn't contribute to the conversation.

"But, you know, I so would," drawled their leader.

"Oh, Blaise! But she's ancient!" protested one of the girls.

Bill was distracted by Victoire, who was reaching for the sugar lumps.

"It's only because she's got that Creature blood!" another girl said. "Wretched Half-Breed."

Bill froze as he recognised who they were talking about. His hand stilled and, giggling, Victoire grasped a chubby handful of sugar and raised it, unstopped, to her mouth.

"She's not that much older than us. She was school champion when we were in Fourth, remember?" said the owlish boy.

"But she's married. With a baby!"

Bill ceased accrediting speech to speaker as his hackles rose and the coiled beast within him heated.

"Married to a Weasley of all things!"

"She's far too pretty for him. Can you imagine facing that scarred monstrosity sweating above you while he impregnated you with ginger half-breeds?"

"Blaise, you're gross!"

"Think she'd rather see you humping away on top of her, do you?"

"Of course she would, Nott. A bit of class, energy, beauty. That's what she needs in her life."

"You're all heart, Zabini."

"Yes, that does sound uncharacteristically generous."

"Not at all. Look at her curves. Come on, none of you would kick her out of bed."

Bill breathed deeply and set his teeth together. He became aware that Victoire was sobbing and he looked down. She was gazing up at him with frightened eyes and pulling at his arm; he loosened his grip on her. He tried to coo the right things, but she was still upset. He spotted his mother a few tables away.

"Take you to Granny," he murmured, as tenderly as he could manage. "Granny make it all better."

His mother smiled at him and he smiled back.

"What's wrong with my little angel?" Molly asked in a sing song voice.

Bill lied with a shrug. Victoire's pale, new arms reached for her grandmother.

After he had handed his daughter over, Bill told himself to leave the room. He had to go out, take in some fresh air and keep control of himself. He paced off, barely seeing the good people around him. He thought he was heading for the exit, but found himself in front of the bar, and then found himself standing in front of the collection of Death Eater spawn. They looked offended. Then they altered their features into a socially acceptable blandness.

He felt his upper lip snarling and in a voice which seemed much deeper than his own, he said, "You don't go near her!"

They leaned back from him, their expressions falling.

"Keep your sick thoughts to yourself. You are shit on her shoes!"

"Steady on, old chap, I'm sure we don't know – " the dark one was trying to keep up the facade of cool, but Bill could smell his fear.

"My wife! You're not fit to think about her!" There was spittle on his chin, it must have been his own.

They all edged away from him. Except for one.

"I'll tear every last one of you into tiny pieces if you so much as look at her again. Do you understand?" Bill growled.

They all nodded. He felt them shrinking from him. All except one. The one so blond he had to be a Malfoy was leaning in, looking straight into Bill's twisted, furious face. His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open. His friends were all frowning, but he wore something like a smile. Bill tried hard to remember why he was supposed to be civil towards these youngsters. He took a deep breath. Reconciliation, moving the Wizarding World into a workable future. That was why. He looked away from Malfoy's unnerving openness, and stalked out of the ballroom.

2\. _I'll go into the bedroom silently and lie down between the bridegroom and the bride,_  
 _those bodies fallen from heaven stretched out waiting naked and restless,_  
 _arms resting over their eyes in the darkness,_  
 _bury my face in their shoulders and breasts, breathing their skin,_  
Allen Ginsberg,  Love Poem on Theme by Whitman.

She smelled different when the moon was full. It was as full as it ever could be on this night, and it hung low and large. Tonight's moon was a harvest moon, in a deep orange colour. He didn't need to see it to know that. He felt it hanging on the other side of the curtains as he lay in bed with his wife, who smelled animal tonight. The sharp scent of her sex overpowered the buttery smell of the pregnancy still.

He rolled towards her and kissed the side of her neck. He felt the smile in her returning murmur. His hand slipped gently up the silky skin of her thigh. She was so delicate. Her little bones felt so slight under his hands. He was careful and protective. He always was with her, always holding himself back. Behind the curtain, the huge moon watched him.

As he pushed slowly into her, every nerve in his skin jolted. Her eyelids flickered open briefly, then her eyes were gone again. His body heated with every thrust. He sped. He lost himself in the redness of his lust.

He heard her cry out. Somewhere under him, far away, a shrill voice said something. He smelled fear but he didn't stop moving. He was holding her down. His pelvis forced itself forward. His hands gripped her shoulders while hers pathetically flapped and scratched at his arms. There were tears.

His Fleur was crying. All of a sudden, the world pulled into a sharp focus. Fleur was panicking under him, in pain, begging him to stop. He stopped. He found that he was covered in sweat and out of breath and he didn't know where the last few minutes had gone.

He backed off so quickly that he fell onto the floor. Then he ran out into the night.

3\. **_Polonius:_** My lord, I will use them according to their desert.  
 ** _Hamlet:_** God's bodykins, man, much better. Use every man after his desert,  
 _and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity;_  
 _the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty._  
William Shakespeare,  Hamlet.

In the brightly moonlit garden the sharp cold of the gravel path on the soles of his feet stopped him. What the hell was he turning into? He darted back into the utility room of the cottage and raked through the piles of clean laundry to dress himself. There were boots drying by the range so he wore them and then he escaped from the distant noise of sobbing and frightening human scents.

He didn't know where he was going, he just knew that he couldn't be trusted to be with decent people; he was a danger to his perfect wife. As he walked the cliff path he tried to pull his mind into logical thought. He was cold. What time was it and where could he go at such a time where he wouldn't worry anyone? There was only the pub. Any pub. Alcohol might or might not be a sensible thing to mix with his reactions just now, but it would make him feel numb to them anyway.

After the wind-whipped, lonely dark, the smoky noise and colour of the Hog's Head felt unreal. It was like walking onto the stage set of someone else's life. He ordered a pint of bitter and sought out a dark, quiet corner. He sat alone, in silence for the length of the first pint and let it soothe him. He took no notice of his surroundings, the vision of Fleur's terrified face the most present thing.

He pushed morosely through the other patrons to get his second drink. As he waited for it to pour, he was shocked by a hand on his arm. He pushed it off.

"What's a good little hero like you doing in a naughty dive like this so late at night?" asked a taunting, clear voice, and the hand returned.

Annoyed, Bill looked round. It was the blond lad, the Malfoy son. Draco. "Not in the mood," Bill growled.

"I'm only making conversation!"

"Well don't."

"We're all friends now, remember. We have to be nice to each other. Forgive and forget. The heroes are all working hard at being polite to Death Eating scum like me. You'll have to get yourself in the mood or Saint Potter will tell you off!"

"Fuck off!" Bill snapped. He snatched his drink and his change and headed back to his dark corner. "Don't fucking follow me!"

The boy took no notice. He practically danced after him, and then pulled a stool up to Bill's tiny table.

"Swearing is naughty," Draco said. "Good wizards in this new enlightened age don't swear at each other. You're one of the heroes of the Order of the Phoenix. You have to set a good example for those of us who were misguided during the dark times."

"I'm trying to have a quiet drink. Leave me alone." Bill glared at him. "Please," he added. Like that would make any difference.

Draco leaned close and whispered, "Make me." He waited.

Bill could feel his temperature rise. He was aware of the moon outside the window. He dug his nails into the wood of the table. This annoying little brat was spoiling his sanctuary.

"Don't fucking tempt me," he said through gritted teeth. He had to leave before the animal inside took over again.

Draco smiled.

Bill forced his way out from behind the table, pushed past the boy and out towards fresh air. He dragged in every breath, hoping it would calm him, but finding it agitating him further instead as the moon's influence grew. He made it out of the pub and round the corner to a secluded alleyway. He put his hands up to his face and screamed into them, digging his nails into his skin.

The arrogant voice cut through the noise of his own blood pounding: "You'll only make it worse you know, and those scratches are ugly enough already."

Bill stared angrily at the dreadful youth, who didn't deserve that unmarked, pale, perfect skin.

"And your wife so pretty! How does she cope with a fright like you in her bed?"

Bill's rage swelled up inside him again and he stopped battling it. This little shit wasn't an innocent. He could take what Bill needed to dish out. Bill let go of all his painful control and sprang for him.

There was no resistance as he shoved him against the nearest wall. Bill's fist smashed into Malfoy's pretty face. Again. Again. His other hand grabbed onto the frail bone of the boy's upper arm and he wrenched. Bill heard sobs of pain and allowed himself to enjoy them. His leg was swinging and his booted foot made delicious, repeated contact with flesh. His breathing was heavy with exhilaration. He bit into the soft skin of Malfoy's blood-heated neck and tore at it. This felt good; he felt liberated. The person under his power was bleeding, bruised, crying. Bill loved it. He shoved the body of his victim against the hard wall, pulled it by its hair and slammed its head back again. He was outside himself, and sunk deep within himself, beyond self-consciousness.

Then there was a strange gasp from the boy, one which sounded out of place. Bill became aware that he was aroused and rutting against Malfoy's thighs. Suddenly feeling sick, Bill pulled back. He stared for one brief moment, horrified, at the beaten state of the young Malfoy against the alley wall. He realised that it had curtained windows, it was actually the back wall of a house, of someone's home. And then he ran away.

4. _And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand. They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, They danced by the light of the moon._  
Edward Lear,  The Owl and The Pussycat.

He woke on the sofa just after dawn. He didn't remember coming back to Shell Cottage. Quietly, he cleaned himself up and dressed without going upstairs. He smelled her full nappy, then after a few minutes, heard Victoire's early morning grumbles. He slipped away and went to work. His stomach was churning too much for breakfast anyway.

He made it through work, though he was aware that he'd been rude to his apprentices and short with the goblins in charge. He made it to the end of the day, nonetheless, and that was what mattered. And when it was over, with a sinking heart and sick stomach, he Flooed home.

As he stepped out of the fireplace he saw long legs pulling themselves swiftly out of his way. His youngest brother, Ron, was sitting in the armchair in front of the fire. He smiled at Bill in a friendly way, and Bill managed to smile back. Fleur appeared in the doorway from the kitchen; she was drying her hands on a teatowel and, after a swift glance at Ron, she watched Bill warily.

"Ok, Bill?" Ron asked. The cheeriness was forced.

"Nice to see you here, Ron." The coldness of Bill's polite reply was just as obvious.

"Dadda!"

Bill looked down. He hadn't even noticed that Victoire was in the room. She came toddling over to him. He stretched out a hand to her and as he did so, he was aware of Ron and Fleur watching him. He gave his daughter a quick kiss before Fleur came and picked her up. She held her close and backed off.

"Actually, mate," Ron said, "I was wanting to ask a favour." He looked swiftly towards Fleur as though for approval. Then he looked back at Bill.

"Yeah?" Bill asked.

"Mum's driving me mad." Ron laughed. "You know how she is. And I was just thinking, you know, until I get my own place sorted. 'Cos it worked out alright when I stayed here before. Didn't it? I was wondering, anyway, if I could move in for a bit?"

Bill looked at Fleur and he could see that it had been she who had asked Ron to be here. She held Victoire tight and eyed Bill anxiously.

"Sure, mate. Whatever," Bill said, and the atmosphere lightened.

Fleur even smiled when she told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.

5\. _Just gonna stand there_  
 _And watch me burn_    
 _But that's alright_  
 _Because I like_  
 _The way it hurts_    
Eminen and Rihanna, Love the Way You Lie.

For a few days, Ron watched him and Fleur hid from him. And then the moon got slimmer and the days passed. Bill's mood lifted and their household relaxed. For three weeks, he was allowed to do his job well and play gently with his child, to sleep safely beside his wife – although he did not attempt to make love to her and she did not initiate intimacy. Then Bill felt it coming on again - the aggression and anger, the metal taste in his mouth and the pulsing of his guts.

He saw the hooded fear in Fleur's eyes. She knew, too. And Ron made sure he was always there, always around when Bill was, lifting Victoire out of his way, always standing between him and Fleur.

"I'm going away for a few days," Bill said eventually. "For work."

Nobody asked for details; they just looked relieved. On his way into the bank that morning, Bill booked himself a room at the Leaky Cauldron. That night he worked late and ate in his room, but his sleep was fitful and filled with sadistic dreams. So, the next evening, he thought he would try a sociable drink in the crowded bar.

He knew a lot of the men in there, most of them were older than him and he laughed along about escaping from the family ties for a couple of hours. He relaxed; he knew that the moon was out there and he felt the beast coiled low inside him, but he managed to ignore them for a couple of hours. He felt so secure, in fact, that he probably drank more than he should have done, which only occurred to him when the menfolk started to peel away one by one to return to their homes and he noticed that the Malfoy kid was sitting by the stairs, watching them all.

Bill focussed on his good mood, tempered by the guilt he felt when he saw Draco's pale, smooth skin. He thought of the bruises he had beaten into it and he determined that tonight he would keep his cool; he would resist the young man's taunts.

He stood when Amos Diggory did, intending to go up to his bed and sleep. He was already on the stairs, when Draco accosted him.

"Very suitable company you're keeping tonight, Weasley. Sitting around with the other old men."

"That's right," Bill replied, calmly and evenly.

"Old before your time. Where are you off to now? Your beautiful young wife's not up there, you know."

Bill didn't need to turn to know that Draco was following him, just a few steps behind; he did not answer.

"How very noble of you to leave her to look after your child all on her own. Too much for you, is it? Old man. Not got the strength for that, eh?" Bill tensed and waited. "Just enough to beat seven shades of shit out of a defenceless wizard, is that it?"

Bill turned. They were nearly at the top of the stairs, nobody in the bar below would hear them. "Look, I'm sorry about that. Really. You caught me the wrong way at the wrong time --"

"About a month ago?" Draco looked defiantly straight into Bill's eyes. "Feeling any more in control now?" His lip curled in a sneer.

Bill started to feel like he was under attack, the wolf within was tensing. Bill wasn't going to give in to it, though, not again. He just had to make it to his room and turn the key, then everything would be safe. "I hope you are fully recovered now," he said, to remind himself of why he had to keep control as much as for Draco's benefit. Then he turned towards the inn's guest bedroom doors, he walked along, his own in sight.

Then Draco said, "Must be bloody awful for everyone around you at this time of the month."

Bill's heart hammered. He concentrated on breathing deep and slow. He gripped the door key in his hand. It was going to be fine. Soon, it would be fine.

"Do you know whose fault it is?" Draco asked.

"What?"

"Who is to blame for the effect the full moon has on your temper? Do you know?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Could you leave me alone now please?"

"You're not fit to live among decent people, are you?"

"I'm in control of this," Bill growled. He shoved the key into the door of his room.

"The wretched mood swings and the ugly face. Your poor young wife."

"Good night Mr Malfoy," Bill said firmly and he got himself into the room.

The door was almost shut when Draco said. "I know who let Greyback into Hogwarts that night."

Bill froze. He didn't shut the door.

"A sadistic werewolf in a school full of innocent children." Draco's eyes glittered and his breathing was shallow.

Bill nodded, remembering how desperate he had been that night to protect everyone else from Greyback, how hard he had fought, what a hero he had been. What good had it done him?

"What sort of evil bastard would have been negligent enough to let a monster like that into a school with only a handful of amateurs there to protect the sleeping babes?" Draco's upper lip twitched.

Nobody had ever told Bill. They must have been worried about what he would have done to the person responsible. Bill had been worried enough himself not to ask. Draco knew, though, and just then, his fury building, Bill needed to know. He needed to know whose fault it was that he had become a creature so violent and unpredictable that his wife was scared to live alone with him. Bill opened the door wider and stepped back. "Who?" he asked.

Draco came right up close, his face in Bill's face and then he said, "It was me."

Bill's vision misted and reddened. He grabbed hold of Draco's collar and dragged him inside the room, kicking the door shut with a slam, and shoving him against it. Again, Draco failed to resist, but Bill did not notice. Neither wizard reached for his wand. Bill rammed his elbow into Draco's nose, then took him by the shoulders and flung him across the room.

"You little shit," he grunted before throwing himself on top of Draco and pounding into him with his fists. Bill's heated blood thundered around his body. After the first half a dozen blows, he had forgotten why he hated the body under his, but he knew he hated him overpoweringly.

Bill bit and snarled and Draco lay limp. Bill tasted salt, but his rationality was too distant for him to equate that with tears. He didn't even recognise his own arousal until he found himself dragging Draco's unresisting form up onto the inn's four poster bed. Then he remembered that he had been frotting against Draco's hip for a while; he knew that he needed a more satisfying purchase.

"You little shit," he said again, to remind himself that he was right, as he yanked up Draco's robes and tore off his underwear.

When Draco screamed, Bill realised that it was the first sound the young man had made since the beating had begun. He shoved the blond head further into the pillows to muffle the sound.

6\. _And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,_  
 _Forbids the scar to heal, and drives_  
 _Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day_  
 _Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives._  
Philip Larkin,  Deceptions.

Bill stepped back, wrenched himself away, and saw what he had done. He saw bruises and blood and a broken young man. He knew that he had made that scene; he was disgusted with himself. He ran outside, back to Diagon Alley, to Gringott's, to his office Floo and to Shell Cottage, blinded by tears and racked with sobs.

The house was quiet, absorbing the rhythm of a child's sleeping breaths. He stood still and absorbed the peace. He wouldn't go upstairs, in fact he shouldn't be here. He would stay a moment, have a cup of tea, sit on his armchair and stare into his fire. Then he would be happy and he would go, a safe and reasonable person again.

On his way to the kitchen, he passed the bottom of the stairs. As he did so, he heard a light creak and, looking up, saw Ron emerging from the bedroom. Bill froze for a moment, processing what he saw. That was the bedroom which Bill and his wife shared. Ron had bare feet, and wore only a vest and pyjama trousers. He looked flushed, and then he saw Bill and his blood drained from his skin until he looked as pale as ice. The two brothers stared at each other, wearing mirroring expressions of horror. Then the moment was broken by the sound of Fleur calling to Ron to return to her.

Ron moved first, out onto the landing, closing the door behind him. "Look, Bill," he said. "I can see what this looks like --"

Bill didn't bother to listen to the rest, he just turned on the spot and Apparated without thinking.

7\. _In the beginning was the Golden Age, when men of their own accord, without threat of punishment, without laws, maintained good faith and did what was right._  
Ovid,  Metamorphoses.

He went back to the Leaky; he had nowhere else to go. He walked through the dark, empty bar which smelled like stale smoke, and he climbed the stairs. Draco sat in the corridor outside Bill's room, naked and bloody with his knees up and his arms wrapped round himself. He looked terribly broken and Bill stopped still, felled by the weight of his guilt. Draco's head rose. He watched Bill without expression. When Bill took a couple of steps towards him, he did not flinch.

"Why are you still here?" Bill asked softly.

Draco shrugged, then winced. He rubbed at his shoulder.

"Why haven't you healed yourself?" Bill came closer. "Here, let me." He took out his wand.

"No! I want the hurt." Draco swallowed. "Leave it."

Without enough energy left to go into his room, Bill sat beside Draco – both of them on the floor of the inn with their backs to the door. Draco looked back down to the floor between his thighs, or maybe at the dried blood on them.

"Shouldn't you have run back to Mummy and Daddy by now?" Bill asked. "Wouldn't that be the sensible thing to do?"

"My father's in Azkaban," Draco said.

"Of course he is. Sorry."

"I should be with him," Draco continued. "I should have been punished for what I did for the Dark Lord." He lifted his face to sneer at the opposite wall. "Bloody Potter hasn't got the guts. Shacklebolt's pathetic. If we'd won, we'd have exacted revenge on the lot of you." He leant his head back against the door. "They just let me go free. Nothing."

There was a long pause.

"Thank fuck I found one Order Member with the balls to punish me," Draco said eventually.

"It doesn't take balls to rape a kid," Bill said, feeling sick. "It wasn't anything as thought-through as vengeance. I need to learn to control my temper. I should have just told someone what I'm like now." He blinked.

"What could anyone do? I ruined your life."

"Wolfsbane. Would probably help. Too proud to ask for it." There was another pause. Then Bill said, "I'm so sorry."

"I deserve it. And more. I want it. I'm not fit to be walking free among decent people." Draco shivered.

Bill took off his cloak and tried to tuck it like a blanket round Draco. Draco shook it off.

"What good's it going to do, you getting cold? Please let me heal you, I feel awful enough as it is."

"Why should I be comfortable?" Draco muttered. "All those Muggles tortured by me, the prisoners in the cellars, so many dead to save my worthless skin."

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs then and Bill hastily covered Draco up with the cloak, hiding the evidence of his own guilt. He stood up as Ron came into view.

"Bill?" Ron asked. He walked a bit closer. "Bill, is that you?"

"How did you find me?" Bill asked.

"Hermione knows some detection spells. Look, Bill. You didn't see what you thought you did."

"Hmm?" Bill didn't trust himself to speak.

"Look, nothing happened. We didn't do – oh!" Ron had spotted Draco, huddled up on the floor. "Uh?" He looked from Bill to Draco.

Draco sneered and pushed the cloak down far enough to reveal his nudity, but not his injuries. Ron gasped.

"Got a problem, Weasel?" Draco asked, all his recent humility shed.

"Are you two ...? Have you just ...? No, of course not."

"What did you want to tell me, Ron?" Bill demanded.

"Erm ..." Ron's shocked face continued to turn from Draco to Bill as he said, in a distracted way, "Look, me and Fleur didn't do ... you know ... anything. She sort of suggested it, but you're my brother, Bill. I wouldn't. I couldn't do that. Just she called me in and I wanted to check she was all right. We didn't expect you to come back."

"You've been protecting her, haven't you?" Bill asked.

"Yes."

"From me."

Ron didn't answer. After a minute Bill said simply, "Thanks."

"What's going on? Why's Malfoy here?"

"You wouldn't get it," Draco said with a smirk. "You're too innocent."

"Too pure," Bill echoed. "Untainted," he added thoughtfully.

"We're not," Draco added, standing and letting the cloak fall off him entirely. "We're tainted. You're all good and pure and lovely."

Ron stared at the blood and bruises on Draco's legs, but said nothing. He wrenched his gaze up to Bill's face.

"Fleur deserves you," Bill said.

"No, look, I told you, we're not doing anything --" Ron began.

Bill raised a hand to stop his apology and explanation and said over the top of him, "But you should be. Do you want to?"

"What? Well, I suppose so." Ron looked bewildered. His eyes flicked down to Draco's marked body again, and then away from it.

Bill nodded sagely. "You're as close as she can get to the man she fell in love with. You're like I was before. Draco's right, you're good and pure. Like Fleur is. You two _ought_ to be together. Go on, go now. Go back to her. You've left her unprotected, pregnant and with a toddler to look after. Go!"

"Really?"

"Don't make me angry, just do what you're told, Ron."

Ron nodded hesitantly and backed away towards the stairs. Bill and Draco watched him.

8\. _Just nineteen, and sucker's dream. I guess I thought you had the flavour,_  
 _Just nineteen, and dream obscene, with six months off for bad behaviour._  
Placebo,  Special Needs.

When Ron was gone, Bill picked up his cloak and tried to cover Draco. When its warmth was rejected again, he opened the door behind them, and pushed Draco into the room. He summoned a bowl of warm soapy water.

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco demanded.

"Look, whatever you think you deserve," Bill said, getting out his wand, "I think you've suffered enough. Sit down." He nodded towards the bed.

When Draco didn't move, Bill sighed, and lifted the light young man under the knees and armpits. He laid him down gently on the bed. Draco was silent and still, with a sulky look on his face, as Bill healed and cleaned him. Eventually, when Bill was searching through his trunk for clothes which might fit Draco, Draco sneered, "You're as soft as the rest of them."

Bill picked Draco's robes up from the floor. They were torn to ribbons. "Did I do this?"

"No, I did it after you'd gone. You should have done it." Draco sat up.

Bill pulled a nightshirt over Draco's head. "Anywhere still hurt?" he asked.

"No, you bastard. I'll just have to wind you up again."

"No, there's been enough of that."

Draco twisted his upper lip in contempt. "You're as fucked up as I am. I'll manage it again. I'll get you to hurt me again."

Bill bit his lips together. He nodded. "You probably will. But you shouldn't."

"Yes I should? Are you saying that temper should get unleashed on innocent decent people? The untainted?"

"No. Nobody deserves that --"

"I do."

Bill pulled back the covers and lay Draco down on the pillow before tucking him in. Then he lay down on the floor next to the bed. "We've both hurt each other. Enough now. Now we stop. It's all even."

"What about all the other lives I made a mess of, or ended? I'm not going to sleep in your bed." He got out and lay down on the floor, on the other side.

After a cold, uncomfortable moment, Bill sighed. "There's a perfectly good bed going to waste up there."

"It's your bed. Sleep in it. Goodnight."

Bill wondered why Draco was still there, why he hadn't gone home. There had to be some good reason for that. "You sleep in it," he said. "It's the least I can do."

"Not if you're on the floor."

"Stubborn little git." Bill stormed round and dragged Draco off the floor, dumping him on the bed, before lying down next to him. "Better?" he asked, infuriated.

Draco said nothing. Bill pulled up the blankets under their chins. After a few tense minutes, Draco rolled towards him and laid his head on Bill's clothed chest. Casually, Bill laid an arm over Draco's shoulders. They fell into dozing together.

In the middle of the night, Bill woke as Draco shifted. Draco looked down on him. "We deserve each other," he said.

"We do?" Bill asked.

"Keep the poisons in one place. Protect the good people." They stared at each other. "You make me feel right," Draco added.

"Weirdo," Bill muttered.

Draco ran a hand down Bill's chest. "Don't you want to fuck me again?" he asked. He stroked at the front of Bill's robes, over his semi-erection. It must have been the closeness of another body which had done that.

"That wasn't even fucking," Bill said. "That was just violence. Making love is nothing like that."

"I know," Draco said. "I'm not a virgin." They lay together and Bill did nothing to encourage Draco, nor to push him away. "Take your clothes off," Draco whispered.

"You really are fucked up," Bill said. "I'm married."

"No. You just gifted your bride to your brother. I'm not the only one who's fucked up. We could meet up once a month," Draco said, kissing Bill's neck. "You could take out your aggression on me. I made you this way, after all."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Bill sighed. "We should see each other more often than that." He pulled Draco up and kissed him. Then he eased their faces apart and looked into Draco's bloodshot eyes. "You're the only one who gets it," Bill whispered with wonder. "You make me stop pretending to be normal."

Draco smiled. It was a tiny, hesitant thing, but it was real.

"Now," Bill said, "I'm going to demonstrate how different lovemaking can be from rape."

"About time," Draco replied.

Bill placed a hand carefully on either side of Draco's waist. This felt different. He wasn't used to a man's shape. He was nervous. He didn't need to worry as much, though. He pulled up the nightshirt and his hand slipped gently up the hairy skin of Draco's muscled thigh. Fleur was too delicate; he knew just how rough he could be with Draco. He could be considerate and sensitive, but he didn't need to be scared.

He thought about Fleur for a moment, then. She was his wife and he was about to be unfaithful to her. He was fully conscious and he was about to commit adultery with his heart and mind as well as his body. She would never leave him, not while she thought he needed her. She was too moral to break the promises of their wedding. He had to move first, to free her so that she could save herself. He would let her know first thing in the morning that he had taken Draco as his lover. It would clear any obstacles to her and Ron's happiness. She wouldn't even need to feel guilty.

Bill's hand hesitated at the crease between Draco's leg and torso. They made eye contact. Then Draco took a firm hold of Bill's face and kissed him hard. Bill's eyes closed and he allowed Draco to control the kiss. Draco's tongue was forced into his mouth, and Bill returned the movement. He sank into the sensuality of Draco's control and, before he knew it, he found that both of their robes were rucked up and their naked cocks were rubbing against each other. It felt fine; it felt good.

As their hips rutted urgently, Draco slipped up, adjusting his position, lifting his knees, and making Bill's cock slide in between his buttocks. He groaned happily.

Bill broke the kiss. "Are you sure?" he asked breathlessly. "So soon after? I don't want to hurt you."

"Just a little pain," Draco replied. "Please?"

"No."

"Stop being the good guy. It's fine. I'm fine."

Draco reached back to the bedside table and picked up a vial. He must have put it there. He handed it to Bill. Bill stopped wondering why and when the vial had got there as Draco dripped something oily out of it onto his fingers and then pushed the fingers back and in, and the ring of muscle at his arsehole clenched round them.

Bill picked up the rhythm and Draco pulled him into another kiss. Bill allowed his instincts and Draco's control to take him over. Draco pulled out Bill's fingers and broke the kiss. He shoved Bill so that he was lying flat on his back. As he got his knees into position on either side of Bill's hips, he said, "Now, _this_ is fucking."

"Making love," Bill corrected, distracted by Draco's slippery hand on his cock, and the way he lifted his hips to hover above it.

"Yeah, that." Draco positioned himself and eased down.

As Bill pushed slowly into him, every nerve in his skin jolted. His body heated with every thrust. He sped. He lost himself in the redness of his lust. He opened his eyes and saw Draco smiling down on him.


End file.
